Richard Cutler

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@China_hp1 Two beacons of light in a dark world.

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@RomulusRemux @Math_files Humans and AI

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@SteelMcSolid @pinkfloyd Hello, is there anybody in there?

[Prof Colin Talbot (and my late pal Rory) @colinrtalbot]

There is no way the UK should be allowing the USA to use British bases to,carry out these attacks. They would be War Crimes.

Please RT if you agree.🇬🇧

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

Save Freeview TV for Lynette and millions of others who depend on it! - Sign the Petition! https://t.co/w0Z5NguJvz via @UKChange

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@Megatron_ron Evil - Pure evil!

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@Protect_Wldlife Yes

[Barry Malone @malonebarry]

This Banksy, which appeared overnight on the side of the Royal Courts of Justice building in London, is extremely powerful.

[Jonathan Cook @Jonathan_K_Cook]

https://t.co/L17BBtvvZC

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@IvankaNews_ No

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@RupertLowe10 Not true!

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

We should not remain silent.

[Dr. Ezzideen @ezzingaza]

I swear to you. Before God. Before this wretched century. Before whatever last flicker of humanity may still remain in me, what I saw today was not life.

It was the collapse of everything that ever claimed to be sacred.

Once, Fridays in Gaza were holy.
Not because of tradition, but because they were tender.
A father would come home with fish, or perhaps a piece of chicken, and for one hour, we would eat like people.
We were poor, but not degraded.
We would smile across the table, thank God for a small plate of meat, and feel alive. We felt worthy of breath.

Even the poorest among us knew this dignity. They saved all week. They endured hunger not out of habit, but for hope. For that one day. That one meal.
That illusion of a normal life.

But now?

Today is Friday.

And I walked through the streets of Gaza, not to celebrate, not even to feed, but to hunt for rice.
Rotten rice.
Gray grains that stick to your fingers and taste like nothing.
Anything. Anything at all to fool the stomach into silence.

My brother searched one market. I searched another.
We returned with crumbs.
We paid with the last coins we had.
They ask for gold in exchange for ash.
And we pay it, because the children must eat, and because we no longer dare to say what is fair.

But I have not come to speak about rice.

I have come to confess what I saw.

A truck passed by.
It was empty.
Its floor was covered in a thin layer of flour dust. Just dust.
Not bags. Not bread. Only the trace of something that might once have saved a child.

And then I saw them.

Not rebels. Not criminals.
Children.

They ran, ran like hunted things, toward that truck. They climbed it with hands that have never held toys.
They fell to their knees as if before an altar.
And they began to scrape.

One had a broken lid.
Another, a piece of cardboard.
But the rest, the rest used their hands.
Their tongues.

They licked it.

Do you hear me?

They licked flour dust from rusted steel. From dirt. From the back of a truck that had already driven away.

One boy was laughing.
Not because he was happy, but because the body goes mad when it is starving.

Another was crying, quietly, like someone who no longer believes anyone is listening.

And I stood there.
With all my shame.
With my hands in my pockets, like a man waiting for a bus.
Like I wasn’t watching the end of the world.

I wanted to scream.
But what scream can reach Heaven, when Heaven itself is deaf?

What words can I offer?
What words can explain the sound of a child’s tongue scraping against rust for a taste of flour?

There are no metaphors left.
There is no beauty in this.
Only sin.
Only crime.
And we are all guilty.

You. Me.
The ones who sent the truck.
The ones who sent the planes.

And God?
If You are watching, then cry with us.
And if You are silent, then we are alone in this hell.

This is the twenty-first century.
But history has not moved forward.
It has swallowed its own children and called it progress.

I don’t want to write this.
I want to unsee it.
I want to forget the boy who licked the floor.

But I can’t.

Because I saw him.
Because he is real.
Because he is more real than all the words I’ve written.

And because if I forget him, then I am no longer human.

#GazaGenocide

[Julie Street 🇺🇦 🇬🇧 🇪🇺 @Juliest101]

Gotta say I'm absolutely bloody loving our new Pope.

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@MotazSaleh2001 🇬🇧🙏🤗

[Dr. Ezzideen @ezzingaza]

I’ve trained myself to turn my eyes away. Not because I don’t care. Because my heart can’t bear any more. Because I see too much already.

In the hospital, I see mothers carrying their children in pieces. Fathers who’ve stopped speaking. Babies who’ve never opened their eyes.
I sew skin, I stop bleeding, I sign death certificates with fingers that tremble behind gloves.

But outside of work, when my shift ends, I no longer watch the videos.
Not of the explosions. Not of the children dug out of the rubble like broken dolls. Not of the women who scream until their throats give out and no sound comes.

But today, something made me stay.

A video. A woman, covered in dust, was holding her son, what was left of him.
Still, she held him as if he were whole.

She leaned close, pressed her lips to his ear, and whispered: “I made you bread.” Her voice trembled like a candle about to die.

Her hands shook as she stroked what was left of his hair. She didn’t look at the wound in his skull. She looked at him like he was just sleeping in too long.

Then she lay down beside him, pulled his body into her chest, and closed her eyes.
As if she could dream him back.

And I understood something terrible: She believed the bread could bring him back.

Do you understand?

This was not poetry. This was not metaphor. This was a mother who believed that if she could have only brought him bread, if she had held it in her hands, warm and real, her child wouldn’t be dead.

Because he died hungry.
Not just poor.
Starving.
His ribs sharp under his skin. His lips split from thirst.
The kind of hunger that gnaws at you slowly until even death seems like relief.

He died without a piece of bread that costs less than a dollar in a world filled with excess.

And she, She thought a loaf could have saved him.
That bread was stronger than war.
That love and sesame seeds might be enough.

I turned off the screen.

And I sat in the dark for a long time.

I did not cry for the child.
I cry for children every day.
I cried for her.
For her belief.
For the broken world that made her think bread was all it would take.

And maybe, in another world, it would have been.

#GazaGenocide‌

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@danny44411 @deanbegley1 @LBC Ditto for Claire Foges last night on ideas on how Reform and the Tories unite to end "Starmerism". Blatant!

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@DrHaroldNews Did anyone look at Dr. Harold News' landing page? Quote "fake news and topical satire"

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@boss_bagels Up the BAGELS - up the REDS

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@ElonMNews A

[Richard Cutler @RichardCutler19]

@JaneyGodley She's certainly upset the League of British Patriots who are foaming at their misogynistic months.